The Devil's Judgment in the Basin

Huarti stands in the basin’s center while the black dragon host stays frozen around him, their wings half-lifted, jaws locked shut. An and Ghorrik Sul, the 7th, hold the flanks, ready for the first sign of defiance.

The red beacon overhead flares brighter. Its light pins the host like a second judgment, and Huarti feels the lingering pull of the Obsidian Spires beneath the sand, watchful and old.

A black dragon near the front tries to lower its head in submission. Another keeps its eyes on the beacon instead of Huarti, measuring escape. The host is not defeated yet, only stopped.

The offer hangs in the still air. Behind the host, the beacon’s red glow catches on a ridge above the Spires, where hidden observers can just be made out as thin shadows against the stone. Huarti has the moment to turn fear into rule, or let this defiance return later.

Huarti lifts one hand, and the first chain of red lightning snaps from his fingers into the front rank. The frozen line breaks into a crackling web of light.

The bolt leaps from one black wing to the next, then the next, turning the host into a brief lattice of red fire under the still sky.

Bodies drop into the sand in scorched silence. Wings sag. The beacon above them flares once, then steadies over the ruin.

An straightens, watching the last sparks crawl across the basin floor. Ghorrik Sul, the 7th, lowers his claws, ready to bind any survivor.

On the ridge, the hidden watchers recoil deeper into shadow, their outline broken by the beacon’s glare.